The Old Bridge

by Andrew Turpin

  Similarly, the living room contained a bulky, outdated widescreen television, instead of a modern flat-screen model. There was no satellite TV box. On the walls were a few landscape prints and a couple of faded black-and-white photographs of what looked like Dubrovnik many decades earlier. But no personal memorabilia was on display at all.

  Odd, Johnson thought.

  He went back to the hallway and up the stairs. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom. The first bedroom, the largest, was clearly Natasha’s. A pair of jeans sat neatly folded on top of a chest of drawers, a folded ironing board stood up against a wardrobe, and a bookshelf in the corner contained a few novels. It also had two framed photographs.

  Johnson walked over to take a closer look. The first photograph appeared to be of a school athletics team: ten boys and a couple of girls who looked as though they were probably all in their mid-teens. There was no label to give any indication of who they were, but Natasha must have had a reason for having this picture in her room.

  He picked up the picture frame and turned it over. There was no label. Johnson sighed, replaced it on the shelf and glanced around the room.

  The other photograph showed a youngster with short dark hair, a broad confident face and a firm, slightly pointed chin. Johnson looked back at the athletic team photograph. The same boy was standing in the middle of the back row.

  Johnson had a sudden thought, remembering his own children’s school photographs. He picked up the framed team picture again, flipped back the four clips that held the image into the frame, removed the cardboard back, and took the photograph out of its enclosure. Now a line of tiny print at the bottom of the white border was visible—the photographer’s indexation code. There was a school name, Gimnazija Dubrovnik, followed by a seven-digit number, and then two words: Jukić, Luka.

  Johnson felt his scalp prickle as he read the name. Is Luka her son? He must be. She had never married, or so she had said. So he must have taken her surname, Jukić.

  Johnson stared out the window.

  Further documents in a safe-deposit box . . . it names someone who has the key . . . Luka . . .

  He replaced the photograph and moved into the second bedroom, which was also quite tidy. A couple of posters of the Jamaican sprint stars Usain Bolt and Yohan Blake hung on the wall, together with a picture of the Hajduk Split soccer team. A pair of running shoes lay on the floor and a few CDs were scattered on the desk. This must be Luka’s room, then.

  There was a chest of drawers and a bedside table. He squatted on his haunches next to the table and opened the top drawer slowly. He found a few banknotes, a pair of headphones, a Swiss army knife, a compass, an English-language dictionary, and a passport.

  Johnson picked up the passport and opened it. The name read Luka Jukić. The photograph looked as though it had been taken in his late teens.

  Johnson realized he hadn’t gone through Natasha’s room properly. He walked back through and opened the chest of drawers but it contained only clothing. The top drawer of a bedside table contained a Bible, a well-thumbed English phrase book, and an iPod with headphones. Natasha clearly lived a sparse existence.

  At the back of the second drawer was a velvet-covered box. Johnson took it out and looked inside. There was a gold ring and also a flat brass key, engraved with a six-digit number on one side and Erste Credit Bank on the other.

  Johnson had seen a few of these in his time. It was a bank safe-deposit box key.

  He placed it on the bedside table and used the camera on his phone to take pictures of both sides of it from several angles. Then he removed a small box containing a soft wax material from his bag and made an imprint of the key in it.

  He carefully replaced the key in the velvet box and stood up.

  Johnson decided he had what he needed. Or did he?

  He scratched his chin. He could get a copy of the key made. But how would that help if ID was required at the bank, as it almost certainly would be?

  And now he remembered that access to deposit boxes always necessitated a second key, held by a bank official, to be used simultaneously alongside the one held by the box owner.

  The longer he thought about it, the more it became obvious there was only one way around the problem.

  Friday, July 20, 2012

  Dubrovnik

  At around half past six that evening, Johnson parked outside Natasha’s house for the second time that day. He tucked his bag of tools under the driver’s seat. Then he strolled up to the door through which he had entered illegally just nine or so hours earlier and this time rang the doorbell.

  Natasha, who was still wearing her work outfit, almost jumped backward when she saw who was standing on her patio. “What . . . what are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again,” Johnson said. “I wasn’t intending to come back to you, but I’m finding myself in quite a difficult situation and . . . well, it’s just that at the moment, I don’t have anybody else to go to. You’re the only person who’s been remotely helpful. It seems to me as though your stepbrother’s done a lot wrong, and I’d like to sort it out. I was really hoping that you might spare another ten minutes so we could have another chat.”

  Natasha’s eyes dropped to the doorstep. “I don’t know,” she said eventually. “What good will it do?”

  “It’ll help me to build evidence,” Johnson said. “Either he’s done things for which he should go to court, or he hasn’t. You would be a real help to me as I try to work that out.”

  After a few seconds, she nodded. “Come in. We can have a quick chat.”

  She led the way to the living room that Johnson had seen earlier and pointed toward an armchair. She sat on the sofa.

  “First, I’d like to thank you for your help with that password and the email address. Believe it or not, it worked,” Johnson said. “Since then, I’ve seen another document that Franjo had, and that indicates there’s more important papers being held in a bank safe-deposit box here in Dubrovnik. It also said the key could be obtained from Luka. I’d like very much to see those documents.”

  Natasha sank back into the sofa. “A key? From Luka?”

  “Yes, that’s what it said.”

  “God, what am I getting into here?” she muttered. She gazed up at the ceiling.

  “So do you know anything about a key for a safe-deposit box?”

  Natasha eyed him steadily. “Maybe.”

  “Well, do you have access to the box?”

  She exhaled and looked at the floor. “I don’t know.”

  Johnson ignored the gesture and continued to press her. “Have you opened the deposit box before?”

  She finally gave in. “No, I haven’t. Franjo asked me not to. He ordered me not to.” Natasha looked at Johnson and held her hands out, palms upward, as if to say she had no choice but to comply.

  “Would you mind if I come with you to the bank so we can open it together? Do you need any special identification?”

  “It’s in Franjo’s name, but he gave me power of attorney so that I could open it if necessary. He told me it was in case any thing ever happened to him, so either of us can open it. But not unless it’s a real emergency. I need to take ID with me, and the key. I’ll think about it, okay?”

  Johnson hesitated. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You’ve done nothing but ask me questions since you found me at my office.”

  “What I’m wondering is . . . I’m assuming Luka is your son, correct? How old is he?” Johnson asked.

  She ran her hand through her hair. “What does it matter to you? He’s twenty-six now, if you must know.”

  “Okay. Can I ask who’s his father? You haven’t mentioned him?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Well does Luka have any kind of relationship with Franjo then?” Johnson persisted.

  She laughed, a false, sardonic kind of laugh. “You could say that. Luka is Franjo’s son.”

  “His son
?”

  “And his step-nephew.”

  “His son and his step-nephew?” A light went off in Johnson’s head. “You mean—”

  “Yes. That’s what I mean.”

  Johnson sat silently for a few seconds.

  Of course. Why does it take me so long to clock these things . . .

  He soon regained his composure. “So when did your relationship with Franjo start? Did it last long?”

  Natasha snorted. “It lasted about two weeks—in the sense you mean. It was back in the autumn of 1986. I was twenty, and he was a couple of years older. We got very drunk one night. We were both feeling frustrated, I think. Neither of us had partners. We watched a film on the sofa, and afterward, it just kind of happened. It seemed natural at the time, though we both knew we shouldn’t be doing it.”

  She paused. “It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t incest, we weren’t blood relatives, obviously. Just step-brother and step-sister. But you know, we’d lived as brother and sister for a long time before that. We both felt extremely guilty. I still feel guilty about it. We knew it was wrong. So we stopped after a couple of weeks.”

  “But two weeks was enough?” Johnson asked.

  Natasha shrugged. “Yep.”

  “Must’ve been difficult. Where’s Luka now?”

  “He works in Split. He’s got an apartment there, but he comes back here fairly often, so he has a room here, upstairs. He’ll be back on Sunday, which is his birthday. He always comes for that. In fact, that’s the only time we ever hear from Franjo. He calls on Luka’s birthday.”

  Johnson sat up. “So that’s the once-a-year call you talked about the other day? He always calls this house number on that day?”

  “Yes. It’s always a quick call, ten minutes maximum. I don’t know if he’s worried we’re going to trace his call and track him down or something. I don’t know what he thinks. But that’s all he gets. That’s the only contact he has with his son.” Natasha seemed close to tears.

  Johnson stood up and walked around the room. “Hang on a minute, he’s going to call here on Sunday, on Luka’s birthday?”

  “Yes, always in the evening, that’s when he calls. If he doesn’t, it would be a first.”

  “Okay, you’ve just given me an idea.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Saturday, July 21, 2012

  Dubrovnik

  A casual passerby wouldn’t have given it a second glance. The discreet brass plaque on the stone pillar next to the gate read Erste Credit Bank, Austria. It was one of several similar plaques on the pillar, all relating to various law firms, finance houses, and banks.

  Behind the ten-foot-high green iron fence, with its sharp-tipped spikes designed to dissuade intruders, was a four-story brick mansion. A security guard sat in a small kiosk at the entrance.

  The bank was on Vukovarska Street, just outside Dubrovnik’s Old Town, in an area of the city frequented more by businessmen and financiers than tourists.

  Johnson drove underneath the vehicle entrance archway and parked in one of the visitor’s spaces behind the green railings. He picked up the small backpack containing the documents from the minefield, which he had brought in case they were needed for cross-checking with the ones they were now hopefully going to view. Then he stowed his Beretta in the glove compartment and firmly closed the door.

  “Shall we go in?” he asked Natasha. She patted her handbag, where she had placed the safe-deposit box key, and nodded.

  They entered the building and approached the security desk, where a uniformed guard directed them to the first floor.

  The Erste Credit Bank offices were protected by a thick glass frontage and a security-controlled revolving door. Once they were through that, Natasha explained the reason for their visit to an owlish bank official with round steel-rimmed glasses and showed him the key.

  “You’ll need to sign an admission slip. Then I’ll obtain the corresponding security key and escort you to the vault,” he said.

  The man disappeared into a back room while Natasha filled in the form, including the six-digit key number, 581482. Two minutes later he returned, scrutinized the form and Natasha’s passport, and led them through double doors he opened with an electronic security pass.

  The bank vault, which the official accessed through a thick steel door with multiple security codes, was a narrow rectangular room lined floor to ceiling with square and rectangular deposit boxes of different sizes.

  The official checked the number on the key that he held, then stepped to the corresponding box, inserted the key into one of the two locks on the front, and turned it. “You unlock yours,” he instructed Natasha. She did likewise. The door clicked open.

  “I’ll leave you to it. Press that button over there when you’ve finished, and I’ll let you out,” the bank official said. He left the room.

  Natasha looked at Johnson. He nodded. She removed a large brown paper envelope from the box and sat down on one of two chairs at the end of the room. “Okay, let’s have a look,” she said.

  At first glance, the papers looked very similar to those that Johnson had retrieved from the minefield. There were only a handful this time, however. Johnson flicked through them: more official typed memos and unofficial handwritten ones from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Sarajevo, most of them brief.

  “My Serbo-Croat is slow. Can you read through these quickly for me?” Johnson asked. She nodded.

  The first one was a handwritten sheet. Johnson pointed to it. “Okay, let’s start with this.”

  Natasha picked up the sheet and read aloud in a quiet voice.

  July 23, 1993

  ACTION

  MEMORANDUM FOR THE PRESIDENT:

  Haris Hasanović—detail of meeting with Alija Izetbegović.

  AI approved plan to allow mujahideen to continue entering and remain in Bosnia, supported by Iran special ops forces.

  Current estimate: 3,000–4,000 in country (Afghanistan, Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, Sudan).

  AI believes mujahideen presence vital to ARBiH survival. ARBiH will help arm mujahideen.

  HH advised AI that go-ahead to be implemented immediately.

  Mujahideen presence to assist Islamic fundamentalist sentiment in Bosnia/Croatia and help AI objective of building Balkan Islamic influence.

  In-country CIA operative advises POTUS opposition highly unlikely.

  Pentagon military adviser in-country gave similar advice—no personal opposition nor advising US to oppose. But no formal US approval to be given.

  AI advised mujahideen forces are good fighters, particularly as shock troops, and to be given full access to weapons imports from Iran. AI advises mujahideen presence will help encourage and funnel in funding from supportive Middle East/Gulf regimes.

  “A CIA operative,” Johnson said. “That’s astonishing, effectively giving a go-ahead to violent Islamic fundamentalist mujahideen in Bosnia.”

  He turned to Natasha. “Thanks for translating that. Do you mind if I see the sheet?”

  Natasha handed it to him and Johnson was able to make out enough of the content to be certain that her translation was on point. He didn’t want to offend her by asking and he knew he would have to verify it later, but it was clear that this document was shocking.

  “My God, I can see why they kept these in the bank vault,” Johnson said.

  But who was the CIA operative in Sarajevo at that time? Must have been some hard nut. That would have been a dangerous posting.

  There was no name in the document. Johnson knew that the ARBiH was the Army of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Izetbegović’s forces, but the Pentagon military adviser was also not identified. That, and the identity of the CIA official, would be something he would need to ask Vic to help with.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Can you read the next one, please?”

  July 29 1993

  ACTION

  MEMORANDUM FOR THE PRESIDENT:

  Haris Hasanović—detail of meeting with Alija Izetbegović

&nb
sp; AI confirmed go-ahead for Mr. B to receive Bosnian passport to facilitate travel to and from B-H. To be processed immediately via Bosnia embassy in Vienna.

  AI advises note of thanks for military assistance and training services supplied to accompany passport.

  AI confirmed regular schedule of future meetings with Mr. B at Sarajevo office to be arranged and put into diary.

  HH confirmed this to be processed.

  USA in-country representatives from CIA and Pentagon now informed by HH. Objections unlikely, they advise.

  “Is that it?” Johnson asked.

  “Yes, just a short one.”

  “It doesn’t say who this Mr. B is?”

  “No.”

  Johnson paused. “Okay, go on to the next one.”

  Natasha turned to the next sheet. “This is another short one,” she said, and began to read again.

  August 3, 1993

  ACTION

  MEMORANDUM FOR THE PRESIDENT:

  Haris Hasanović—detail of meeting with Alija Izetbegović

  AI instructed go-ahead for mujahideen training camps be given. To be set up in Poljanice (Bila valley), Travnik, Zenica, and Orasac (also Bila valley).

  Fighters from training camps to be allocated to ARBiH 3rd Corps or 7th Brigade.

  Possible visit by Mr. B to training camps.

  US in-country representatives from CIA/Pentagon to be informed by HH. No objections expected.

  Johnson had Natasha run through the other documents, all of which related to activity involving mujahideen in Bosnia, the supply of weapons from Iran, and other similar issues.

  Then Johnson took out his phone and photographed each of the sheets, including those from the minefield. “Just in case,” he said.

  Once he had finished, he put them back in the brown envelope. “Okay, I think we’re done,” Johnson said. “I have an idea. You said Franjo always calls on Luka’s birthday, to your house number, right?”

  “Always.”

  “We’ll trace the call; I know someone who can arrange that. Then we should be able to get the address.”